


If I Let My Heart Go

by Pensieri



Category: Glee, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drama, F/F, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pensieri/pseuds/Pensieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinntana/Hunger Games- It's the day before the reaping and the whole of Panem is gearing up for yet another Hunger Games. However, in District 12, Quinn and Santana find themselves facing their fears in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago on tumblr I took some prompts. I got two asking for the same thing: a hunger games/quinntana crossover. I got carried away with the idea and so decided to write a mini-story rather than a one-shot. This is planned to have 3 parts in total and so far the first 2 have been posted on tumblr. I decided it was time to post them on here too.
> 
> Even though I already said it when I first posted these, I have to say a massive thanks to bh9 and empresskris for all their help with both parts so far. You are fantastic and I value you far more than you probably know.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.

Save for the occasional stream of dappled light, it's dark under the cover of the tall trees that hide us from the world. We wander together, just as we always do, towards the lake where the majority of our childhoods were wasted away. Except this time everything seems so different.

The leaves crunching pleasantly under our feet aren't different. The moon glimmering overhead isn't any different. The water rippling gently in the breeze is no different at all.

Everything feels so different now, yet the world hasn't inexplicably changed overnight. It's us.

It's been building for a while, the dread and anxiety we're both feeling, but until now it's gone unspoken. You see, there's nothing either of us can do about it so what's the point in endlessly discussing it?

The reaping is tomorrow and, like it or not, there's always a chance that one of us will be picked out as tribute for District 12.

In reality, since we'll both soon be 19, this is the last year either of us can be selected and we've been incredibly lucky so far. I know for a fact that Santana's name must be in that stupid glass bowl more times than I'd care to think about due to the amount of tessarae she's taken over the years. I guess I'm much luckier. Being the Mayor's daughter means I've never had to face that choice like Santana has. If I could I would scribble out her name on those pieces of paper that hold our fate, and replace it with mine. I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I can't because the whole scenario is impossible.

The Hunger Games are all I've been able to think about for weeks. Now though, those thoughts have become overwhelming. I know she feels the same. I also know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she could figure out every thought that's in my head. So, without even discussing it, we've done what we've always done in these situations, both understanding the other's needs. We've escaped.

Of course I don't mean that literally. There's no chance of any sort of real escape, but this lake (our place, if you like) is the closest thing we've ever had to one.

We exit the clearing and Santana immediately settles down on the smooth, flat rock by the edge of the lake. The sight of it is familiar, and the vision of her perched on it seems so normal that it almost puts me at ease. Almost.

As the wind blows through her dark hair she kicks off her shoes and without hesitation places her feet in the cool water. I watch her face as she lets it lap gently over her skin, the steady back and forth motion creating ripples around her toes. We've known each other for long enough now for me to understand that this is something she does when she's feeling stressed. It's something she's done ever since her younger brother died.

I sit down next to her, my arm brushing against hers as I do. Before I know it my mind is taking me to places I don't want to go. Flashbacks run through my mind at a hurtling pace, tears threatening to spill as I recall everything the two of us have been through.

I remember the first time we met, both of us just kids who were forced to work together for a school project. At first, I didn't understand Santana at all, her harsh words and cold nature confused and baffled me. We were only 6 but I could tell there was something different about her, something that she was hiding from the world. Puck, the mouthiest kid in our class, was chasing me around, ignoring my requests to leave me alone, when Santana strolled up and gave him a dead leg. She didn't say a word to me as he winced in pain, rolling on the floor, but she grabbed my hand and dragged me towards the swing as if nothing had happened. Slowly, her walls came down and she let me see the real her, a person who is more kind and thoughtful than she'd ever care to admit. We've been best friends ever since.

Suddenly I'm transported forwards to the time when we snuck out to our lake in the middle of the night, splashing around in the water while the sounds of the darkness surrounded us. It was like being in our own little bubble where nothing, and no one, could reach us. Santana's dad practically shouted us into outer space when we eventually came back. At the time I just remember knowing that it was worth of every second of his anger. Of course, my parents hadn't even realised I was gone, too busy to notice. I remember feeling guilty at the harsh punishments that followed for Santana, whilst I got off free, although the other part of me wished someone cared enough about me to bother telling me off.

The memory is quickly replaced by another, this time we're 13 and we're sat in the alley behind the baker's shop eating sweets that we'd managed to steal from my Father's office. It was all Santana's idea of course, her hand wrapping around mine and dragging me along the corridor, insisting that her plan was completely fool proof. To be honest, she could have said anything and I'd have followed her without question. To this day, my Father doesn't know a thing about it.

I remember the time that she told me she wasn't into boys. We were 16 and she had the most enormous crush on Marley, a girl in the year below us. The two of them had a brief thing, but it ended all too suddenly and Santana wound up on my doorstep, her heart in tatters and her head all too muddled due to the amount of alcohol she had managed to find and consume. I let her cry through the night, her head resting on my chest, until she fell asleep clutching my hand.

Our friendship hasn't always been perfect, I know that. The two of us have been through a lot and we've had more than our fair share of arguments, but every single time (even when we've slapped each other senseless) I've always known that eventually she'd come back to me, and I to her. It's just the way it's meant to be.

The memories have flooded my head, bewildering my senses, and all I can think about is how painful it would be to lose her.

She looks over at me and I can tell from the expression on her face that she's immediately noticed something's wrong in a way that it wasn't before. Of course she has. She knows me like nobody else.

"Quinn?"

Her tone is soft and I don't break the eye contact between us, "Yeah?"

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No," I say simply, my voice cracking slightly as I do. I tuck my feet up onto the rock, clutching my knees to my chest.

She doesn't push me to say anything. Instead she hops off the stone, gently moves my legs, and begins untying my shoes. It takes her a matter of seconds and when she's done she pulls them off and lets them drop carefully to the ground below. She stands up and holds out her hand in my direction, "Let's swim."

"In our clothes?" I take her hand and hop off the rock, landing on the rough ground to my left.

She shrugs, "Well I'm not planning to."

We've done this plenty of times before, although it hasn't been quite like this for a long time. As she pulls off her clothes I feel a blush spread across my cheeks. The moonlight casts enough of a glow that I can easily make out the outline of her body as she walks into the water. After a few steps she effortlessly glides in and disappears under the surface, reappearing again a few metres away. Treading water, she turns around and shouts at me to join her.

I carefully remove my clothes, shedding each layer with much more thought than usual. I know I should be expecting it, but as the cool water laps against my skin I shiver at the contrast in temperature regardless.

Within seconds I'm by Santana's side once more and my eyes are automatically drawn to hers. Droplets of water are clinging to her eyelashes and that familiar ache pangs inside me once more as I contemplate what life would be like without her. I will myself to push the thoughts away but the task seems too impossible. She's been such a huge part of my life for so long now, and the reality of the situation is too much to cope with.

Not for the first time I think of the Gamemakers, no doubt sat there excitedly anticipating the beginning of yet another year of entertainment for the Capitol. Anger starts to build, mixing with the fear and sadness inside me and creating a lethal cocktail of emotions.

"Q?" Her voice breaks through my thoughts, shattering them but not ridding me of the anger burning through my veins or the fear twisting in my stomach.

"I just…" I begin but my words are blocked by the lump forming in my throat.

She looks at me simply, her eyes still locked to mine, and smiles sadly, "I know."

"How can they do this? We're just entertainment to them, Santana, don't you see? People are going to die, people we might know, and they're going to sit there and watch, drinking wine and laughing about it. It makes me sick."

She runs a hand through her damp hair, ruffling it slightly, "The Gamemakers, they're just dicks, but no matter what this is still your life, Quinn."

"Is it? Don't you see? We're trapped here like animals. We can't escape, we can't go anywhere at all. And then once a year they send two of us for the slaughter. What kind of life is that?"

We're side by side now and Santana's own tears threaten to spill over, mixing with mine in the water that surrounds us, "We can't think like that, Q. Not tonight. We've got one more night and then after tomorrow it's done for us. This is the last year we'll be entered."

I smile half-heartedly, trying desperately to shift this feeling inside, "It's normally you getting angry, not me."

"Time for some role-reversal, I guess," she says softly. Pausing, she looks out across the water and I can see the sadness in her eyes. She blinks and it's gone, hidden from view once more as she gives me a crooked smile, "I'm fed up of being angry. Besides, you know that's not always me."

"I do," I nod. Silence hangs for a moment between us, although it's not awkward in the slightest. Eventually I break it, unable to hold the words back any longer. My voice is so quiet that at first I'm not even convinced she's heard me, "I'm scared of losing you."

I swear I can hear the breath catch in her throat, "Don't think like that, Quinn."

"You're my best friend, Santana."

She gives a small chuckle, a clear attempt to diffuse the situation and get me smiling again, "Oh come on, you'd be just fine. Think about how much less slapping you'd have to do? I know I drive you nuts sometimes, and you can't say I don't."

Her attempt to lighten the mood doesn't work, instead it somehow just makes it all worse, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She doesn't try to make light of it this time, or tell me it'll all be alright. Instead she simply looks at me, and as her eyes connect with mine it's as though we're the only two people in the world. It's just me and her and everything else is melting away, insignificant in comparison. Maybe she's right, maybe we do just need to focus on tonight. Tomorrow can wait. I know without a shadow of doubt that if there's anyone I can do that with, temporarily forget it all, it's Santana.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips and my stomach twists in a way that's entirely new and unexpected. I don't even have time to understand what it means or why it's happening before I feel her lips pressed against mine.

It all happens so suddenly that honestly, it takes me a few seconds to actually begin to comprehend it all. When my brain eventually clicks into gear and I realise that she's kissing me, it's too late. Her lips are already gone and so is the moment. All I'm left with is the memory of it all and the shivers that are still coursing through my body, tingling deliciously down my spine and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

She's pulling away, panic so clearly written all over her face. I try to speak but the words aren't forming right, somehow getting lost on the tip of my tongue, balancing precariously but refusing to fall out of my mouth in any sort of rational way. My brain is too muddled to make sense of anything, let alone the fact that literally only seconds ago my best friend was kissing me, and that more importantly it's left my body riddled with sensations that I'm struggling to analyse.

Her mouth opens and I wait for her to speak but all that comes out are unfinished words. She takes a deep breath and I can hear it shudder through her body. Eventually, one word leaves her lips, nothing more than a breathless whisper, "Sorry."

Before the last syllable has even left her mouth she's turned away from me, launching herself into the water and back towards the shore.

I swallow, begging my senses to return to me. All I know is that I don't want her to go. In the end it's this fact that seems to wake me up enough for me to shout across the water at her, "Santana! Stop!"

The water crashes around me as I swim as fast as is humanly possible, chasing after her in desperation. I exit the lake and see that her clothes are gone, clearly scooped up as she made her escape. Her wet footprints, glistening softly in the moonlight, lead back towards the trees. I haphazardly pull on my clothes, deciding to leave my shoes by the side of the rock where Santana placed them only minutes ago. I can come back for them later, for now all I know is that I have to find her.

My feet pound heavily against the ground, and I ignore the sharp stabs in my soles from the rocks and twigs that litter the floor. My voice echoes through the trees but it's pointless. All I can hear is the wind whistling through the trees, and the soft rustling of the leaves on the ground.

She's gone.


	2. Part II

Rain pours, drenching me to my skin. I shiver uncontrollably as my tears mix with the drops of rain that are rolling down my cheeks. I don't even know where I am. I stopped concentrating on which left I took and how many rights I made a long time ago. Instead my mind has been focused on one sole thought.

I have to find her.

Sobs shake through me as I shout her name into the darkness, my words getting lost, tangled up in the mess of branches all around me.

As I shout her name once more, hearing the syllables become swallowed up by the darkness, I turn to the left, once again scanning all around me in the desperate hope that she's still here somewhere. Between the trees I can just make out a figure.

They're walking towards me and as they step ever closer, familiar brown eyes meet mine and the hammering in my chest begins to soften, somehow calmed by her very presence. She smiles tentatively and her mouth opens slowly, her tongue wetting her lips as she prepares to speak. The first word hasn't even formed in her mouth when the entire scene changes around me without warning.

Suddenly I'm no longer in the forest. Instead, my eyes are adjusting to the dim glow of the light on Santana's porch. I look down at my feet, still bare after leaving my shoes by the lake, by our lake.

It only takes a few minutes for me to recall the events that led to me being here.

Despite the fact that I haven't slept at all, I don't actually feel too much like the living dead. I suppose that's due to the sheer amount of adrenaline coursing through my veins, and the panic that's flooding my brain.

I've been here for around 5 hours now. The sun will be coming up shortly and I know that soon my parents will enter my room to prepare me for the reaping, only to find an empty bed. If I'm being honest I couldn't care about any of that. The reaping… My parents… It all seems so insignificant right now compared to the fact that my best friend is just metres away yet is refusing to talk to me.

I can still feel her lips against mine, even though the action ended so long ago. I immediately chased after her, through the trees and under the fence that lies beyond, but as usual I was too slow, simply left to follow hopelessly in her wake. She's always been faster than me. Always one step ahead.

The hard wood beneath me is only softened by a thin cushion. What little padding it contains is somewhat lumpy and the edges are frayed beyond help but it's better than nothing and I am grateful to Santana's mom for bringing it to me in the first place. It's a stark contrast to the pristine ones scattered all over the couch at home, the ones that are only there for decoration, and unlike this one, don't feel at all comforting.

After waiting out here for what must have been an hour or so, Santana refusing to open the door, I guess her mom must have taken pity on me. She looked at me curiously as she held out the cushion, but not a single word left her lips. The countless questions I can only assume she had remained hidden in her mind.

I wonder now what she was thinking. Does she have any idea what's wrong? Has Santana said anything? I highly doubt that. Santana and her mom are close, I know that, but I also know that those walls that Santana has up are practically ten feet tall, topped with razor sharp wire and shards of glass. She's been this way since the day her brother died. Matters of the heart stay there, protected and hidden from the majority of the world. A small minority are privileged enough to be allowed in- I'm usually one of them. I hope to God that, at least, hasn't changed.

I go through the events of the night for what feels like the thousandth time.

Santana kissed me.

Though, the whole moment was so fleeting that part of me wonders if it's all just a figment of my imagination; something my subconscious conjured up for a reason I don't yet understand.

Whilst I've replayed the scene in my head umpteen times, I'm still no closer to understanding how I feel about it at all. The butterflies that filled me earlier are long since gone, having fluttered away to escape the wave of panic that flooded my body the moment she swam away from me.

Even amongst the whirl of noise in my head two things are managing to ring out clearly. Firstly, I'm confused. That much is more than obvious to me. Secondly, I need to talk to Santana.

For some reason I feel as though just talking to her will help me understand what's going on in my brain. As well as that, I need to know what it was for her. Was it simply a spontaneous kiss, fuelled by our heightened emotions? Or was it something more? In all honesty I have no clue what it was for me, and trying to figure that out is only increasing the pounding sensation that's echoing repeatedly in my head. It's all too much. I suppose it doesn't help that I've been awake for hours, over-analysing every tiny detail until they've become nothing more than a blur of confusion.

Light begins to break through the darkened sky, billowing with menacing clouds that only seem apt considering that today is when two people, children, will be sent to what will likely be their death. Adding that fact to my already overloaded mind is just too much, so I push it away into the depths once more. I know I'll have to face it soon though; it's inevitable.

I don't even notice I've drifted off to sleep until his bellows echo in my ears, thunderously loud and full of anger.

"Where the hell have you been? Are you stupid? It's the reaping today and your mother wakes up to find your bed empty! Do you have any idea how ridiculous we would look if the rest of the District found out that the Mayor can't keep a handle on his own daughter? And that better still, she spent the night outside the Lopez house?"

That's it. I snap. I'd managed to keep it together until now, more than used to his tirades, but this time he's gone too far. The words are launched out of my mouth, drenched in venom, before I have a clue of what I'm doing, "What are you trying to say? Come on, spit it out Mr Mayor." I sneer through the last two words, rage mixing with the complex combination of emotions that are already filling me to the brim.

His eyes widen, so visibly filled with shock that I dared to talk back to him. "You know very well what I'm trying to say, Quinn. We have a reputation to uphold and these people…" He pauses, his eyes travelling up and down as he surveys their house; a simple wooden structure that has always felt much more like home to me than our own fancy house (which was paid for with Capitol money due to the deals my father has been part of throughout the years). He looks at me once more, eyes dark and cold, then continues, "These people are not who you should be socialising with. I have always said that girl would drag you down to their level. Now, stop playing games and get home."

"No, go on. Is it the fact that the Lopez family work hard for their money? Is that what bothers you? That they have honest jobs and do something which benefits this community? That they're part of a loving family who actually care about each other? Or is it just that they're decent human beings and that's too much for your stupid brain to comprehend?"

His palm collides with my cheek before I have a chance to actually understand the implications of what I've just said. I've never spoken to him like this before, never dared to stand up to him, but I guess the culmination of recent events has pushed me over the edge.

"You insolent child," his voice is low, shaking slightly as he attempts to control the anger that is no doubt coursing through him, "Get back home now."

I stare at him, not wanting to break eye contact and show weakness, "I'm going to go back, but don't you think for one single second it's because of you. Mom is waiting and she has enough on her plate having to live with you, that's without me making things more difficult for her. So believe me when I say I couldn't care less how any of this affects you, and I don't care how much you hate the Lopez family. Santana means the world to me and nothing you say will ever change that. So go run back to the house, get ready to socialise with all your business partners from the Capitol, and abuse your position of power to make sure your precious reputation stays intact. But you and I? We're done. Santana, and all her family, they're worth a million of you."

As I walk away, in the corner of my eye, I spot movement in the window to my left. I glance back but all I see is a flash of jet black hair and a curtain floating back into its rightful place. She's already gone.

I take a deep breath, the cold morning air shuddering through me as it fills my lungs. Right now I have to go home, I know that. After all, as much as I hate my father, I love my mom and I can't let her down. I try desperately to calm myself, knowing that I need to hold it together for a little while longer at least. My feet pound on the ground, taking me away from my father as quickly as I can manage. I remind myself that the sooner I'm home and can get ready, the sooner I can find Santana at the reaping.

My mind is on autopilot, and I cling desperately to that thought as if it's the only thing that matters. As if she's the only thing that matters. It's now that I start to realise how very true that thought actually is.

I go through the motions, allowing my mom to fuss over me as much as she likes. She doesn't ask me any questions about where I've been, not because she doesn't care but because I think she can tell that I don't want to talk about it. So instead we discuss inane things, anything to get us through the next few hours. I know that behind her smile, the one which is permanently plastered on in my father's presence, she feels alone and terrified. With me that mask falls slightly. I wish, not for the first time, that she'd just leave him already, but I also know how impossible that would be. Where would we go? She has no money of her own.

It's just another reason why I wish I could escape this place. I'd take my mom and Santana, and just run as far as I could, away from this wretched life. But there's no time to think about that now, after all it won't do any good. Plus, I've got more than enough on my mind.

In no time at all we're grabbing our coats, ready to leave for the reaping. My father hasn't said a word to me since he got back; instead he's locked himself in his study. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Silently, the three of us walk together, doing our best to pretend we're one happy family. As soon as we get to our destination I'm gone, only pausing to hug my mom and give her my best reassuring smile. My eyes are torn from my mother's and immediately they begin frantically scanning the area for any sign of Santana. She has to be here somewhere.

As I move forward I begin to get swallowed up by the sea of people, children that are making their way to their potential end. I try to ignore the sensation burning through me, instead just focusing everything I have on searching for her.

Every pair of brown eyes and lock of black hair captures my attention, building up hope inside me that is all too soon shattered when realisation dawns. None of them are her. Which begs the question, where is she?

I don't have much time to contemplate the answer before peacekeepers are forcing us forwards, herding us like cattle. I feel the sharp pain as they take a sample of my blood, but my mind is elsewhere, completely absorbed by the notion of finding Santana.

Panic begins to fill me as more men in white uniforms lead us to our alphabetised sections. Within a matter of moments I'll be trapped here, unable to leave and find her. My mind is swimming with questions that I'd rather not have. Questions I can't possibly answer. What if I can't find her? What if she doesn't want to talk to me? What if things will never be the same between us now?

It's too much for me to handle, I can feel it. My heart is hammering in my chest so quickly that I fear it's going to explode. My stomach is tensing uncomfortably, and I almost feel as though I'm going to be sick. This can't be happening. What if her name gets pulled out of that stupid glass bowl and I never get the chance to see her again? Never get to chance to tell her… I don't even know exactly what it is I want to tell her. All I know is that being this far from her feels so wrong it hurts.

I try desperately to breathe but it's as though my body has gone into meltdown and is refusing to act rationally. It's then, just as my group is separated off, that I see her.

Everything fades away as my eyes lock onto hers. The murmuring of the crowd, the sobs coming from anxious parents, the feedback from the microphone as Effie takes the stage; none of it even registers properly in my brain. All I see, all I know, all that matters is her.

It's then, as she meets my gaze, that it hits me. The force of it is so strong that I can actually feel it, like a tidal wave crashing through me and obliterating everything in its path but this. It's the only thing that remains untouched; dragged up from the depths where I was unaware it was even hiding. I wonder how on earth I didn't realise it before because it seems so painfully obvious now.

I love her.

Of course I do. How could I not?

Every single cell in my body is crying out for her, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am completely in love with everything about her. It's unquestionable, shining out as clear as day.

I smile at her, hoping desperately that she can somehow sense everything I wish I could tell her right now. Perhaps she can make it out, hidden in my eyes that refuse to leave hers. I will her to read the words that are written so plainly all over me, the words that are all for her. The thought consumes me so much that I almost don't hear the name that Effie reads out.

Almost.

The two words ring in my ears. They sound so impossible yet as Effie repeats them, their truth begins to sink in.

"Santana Lopez."


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this tale. Thanks to each and every one of you for reading.

_Santana Lopez._

Two small words. That’s all.

Yet those words, those twelve letters, string together into something that can only be described as my worst nightmare.

They echo repeatedly in my mind, impossibly loud and indescribably painful. They’re all I can hear, yet are the one thing I wish I’d never had to.

They begin to mix with the three words that had been filling my head only mere seconds ago.

_I love you._

They don’t belong together, these five words. They can’t possibly. It’s not fair. They can’t take her away from me. Not now. Not when I’ve only just realised. Not when I’ve only just found her… Found us.

I’m stuck in this moment, replaying the cruel twist of fate in our story that has torn us apart.

I see her move away from the rest of her group, and suddenly it’s as though everything is in slow motion. My brain is blocking out the words that were, only seconds ago, pounding ferociously inside my skull, perhaps a subconscious effort to save myself the pain. My eyes are locked to her, yet even though I’m taking in her every movement, I still can’t fully comprehend what’s happening.

It’s as though this moment, this world I’m in, is nothing but a dream.

I know that I can see that she’s walking up to the stage, two white shadows following her the whole way, yet it still doesn’t seem real. From the way she’s shaking her arm I can only imagine that those armoured hands were gripping her mere moments ago, forcing her to move upwards towards Effie’s beaming grin and open arms, and I know my mind can’t possibly have had up such intricate details. Surely not.

But, regardless, for some reason none of it is sinking in.

This can’t be happening. It just can’t. I don’t know what my brain is doing but somehow it feels as though I’ve convinced myself that this is all just one horrible figment of my imagination and that any minute now I’m going to wake up and find myself back on her porch, my father standing over me, yelling his guts out.

The crowd is moving slightly, heads turning backwards. They’re looking at something. I’m unaware as to what but suddenly I see a young boy walk down the dusty track, between the throngs of children, and towards the stage and it begins to make sense. He’s our male tribute. I didn’t even hear his name being read out.

I can see Effie speaking into the microphone, Santana and the boy standing alongside her, but I can’t hear a word. I’m somewhere else, drifting helplessly, drowning in disbelief.

It’s then, as her eyes lock with mine, that it hits me.

She’s our female tribute.

She’s going into the arena.

She’s being sentenced to death.

I stumble backwards slightly, as if the very force of this realisation is powerful enough to have a physical effect on me. Two hands stop me from falling, and suddenly I’m powerless to hold back the wave of emotions that is flooding over me. Sobs are shaking through me so hard that it’s difficult to breathe. Through the thick stream of tears escaping me, I can just make her out.

For a second I consider volunteering in her place, anything to stop this from happening, but just as the thought enters my mind she turns to face the microphone, eyes never leaving mine as she does so.

Effie is no doubt making some comment about Santana being selected, and how much of an honour it is, but whatever it is goes unheard by my ears. All I see are her eyes, blazing fiercely into mine, and I know that she’s more than aware of what I’m thinking, what I want to do. She knows how I work all too well. She always has.

I force myself to stop the train of thoughts that is rattling through my head, and think rationally. She wouldn’t want me to volunteer. In fact, I’m fairly sure that as soon as she saw me begin to open my mouth she’d find some way to stop me, to bend the rules. Maybe she’d make some kind of joke about volunteering anyway. I don’t know. I do know, however, that volunteering doesn’t really make any sense.

Maybe that makes me gutless. I don’t know.

As I tune back into the world, I hear her voice fill my ears and I have to stop myself from wondering if this will be the last time I will hear her speak without having to watch a pixelated version of her. I know if I continue thinking this way that I’ll break down even further, and I can’t afford to do that. Not right now.

I take a deep breath and attempt, in vain, to calm myself down. People around me are beginning to stare, but they’re not judgemental looks. No, instead they’re looks of understanding. After all, this scenario is one that has crossed through all our minds, having to watch someone you care so deeply about being ripped out of the world they live in and thrust mercilessly into the arms of death. It’s something we all share.

Suddenly, I’m filled with an uncontrollable desire to be closer to her. If this is the last time I will see her then I can’t bear to be this far apart. I push my way carefully through the crowd and I see the look on her face as she realises what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m bothering because I know I won’t get far. The peacekeepers will stop me before I can.  But still I do it anyway.

I only manage to move about 10m before I’m stopped. But now I’m at the front of my section and I can see her so much clearer. Effie looks at both the tributes, and I realise I have no idea what the boy’s name is. He only looks about 13, a scrawny kid who shouldn’t be up on that stage. He doesn’t belong there. But then again, none of us do.

Effie’s turning around now, beginning to lead them both into the building behind. I start to panic as I realise that this might be the last time I ever see her and right now she’s leaving. If she goes behind those heavy wooden doors there’s no guarantee I’ll ever be near her again. Be breathing the same air again. I can’t let that happen. I need to talk to her, even though I have no idea what I’d say.

All I know is that I can’t have our last conversation be the one we had in the lake. She has to know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. She has to know I don’t hate her for what happened. She has to know I love her.

I plead with the peacekeeper to let me through, to let me closer, but he knocks me to the ground as I try. Santana must see me out of the corner of her eye because suddenly she’s turning around and is yelling in his direction.

“Get your hands off her!” I hear her voice waver, and I can see how much she’s hurting behind that mask. The knowledge sends an ache reverberating through my chest.

Effie is immediately by her side, whispering in her ear. No doubt she’s telling her to quell her anger. In a fight against a peacekeeper, after all, you have no chance of winning.

“That must be one of your friends, Santana. How lovely! Well, fear not, you shall have a moment to speak with her before we leave for the Capitol,” Effie says calmly, her voice full of enthusiasm as ever, while gesturing briefly at me.

I stand up, brushing off the dirt, and nod at Santana. A gesture that tells her to continue on (not that she really has a choice). Effie has said we’ll have a chance to speak later and so I must trust her words.

Santana roughly grabs the door that Effie is pointing to, yanking it open, and, as she disappears behind the dark wood, I just about hear Effie’s voice as she says, “You really should be careful. That’s mahogany!”

As soon as she is gone, I can’t help but allow the dam to break, letting my tears overcome me again. I fall to the floor, not even noticing the pain in my knees as they slam against the rough ground below. My fist bashes against the earth in frustration, causing dust to billow up and stones to scatter off in random directions. I’m overwhelmed by the emotions inside me, the anger and the pain, but letting them out is only making it worse. It’s making them more real. I only stop when I feel a hand on my back.

I look to the side and see Marley crouching beside me, her blue eyes full of concern. Since her relationship with Santana ended almost two years ago the two of us have barely spoken, though I have nothing against her. I don’t try to think too much over why she’s here by my side now. Instead, I’m just grateful.

“Quinn, come on. We have to move now, okay?” she says softly as she grabs my hand.

I don’t say anything in return. I don’t even try. I just let her lead me away from this place.

As we move I realise that there’s nobody left here but us, my mom and dad (who appear to be keeping their distance, my mother visibly worried while my father looks almost apathetic), and a handful of peacekeepers. They must have ushered everybody out quite a while ago. I assume that’s why we have to leave now. I can only guess at how long I stayed there, curled up on the ground, a prisoner to the intensity of my feelings.

As we round the corner it’s only then that I begin to wonder, my brain piecing the facts together, “Marley, how long has it been? She’s still here, right?”

Marley nods, “That’s why I came to get you. They said she was allowed her last visits.”

“Thank you.” The words only just manage to leave my mouth, stuttered and broken.

Marley just smiles sadly, “I know how much she means to you. I didn’t want you to miss this chance to see her again.”

The path down the corridor seems never-ending, my feet thudding heavily on the thick carpet. I’m exhausted even though it’s only a few hours into the day, a culmination of lack of sleep and the lethal combination of emotions consuming me. I don’t know what to expect of this next moment, and whilst I want nothing more than to be with her again, I’m already dreading the moment when they’ll make me leave.

I try not to dwell on it, my heart entirely unprepared for that right now.

My guide points at the door on the left, silently gesturing that we have reached our destination. I swallow hard, trying to combat the lump in my throat, as I reach my hand out to the gold handle, so cold against my skin.

The room is dark, both in appearance and atmosphere. Dark wood, a few choice pieces of vaguely grand furniture, deep-red walls and in the middle of it all, Santana. She just looks at me at first. She’s impossible to read, her barriers well and truly up.

“San…” I whisper, walking towards her.

I take her hand in mine, slowly lacing our fingers together one at a time. The speed of my action is deliberate, delivered with the hope that it will somehow force my brain to memorise every intricate detail of her, and of this moment. I look up at her, trying desperately to hold back my tears for one more minute.

Her deep brown eyes flood my vision and I fix mine to hers, hoping that she can not only see, but hear, my painful honesty, “I love you.”

I hear her inhale sharply at my words, not quite a gasp but certainly an element of shock.

I continue before she can stop me, “I’m sorry about the lake. I didn’t… You surprised me and I didn’t know what to think or do,” I reach my hand up to cup her cheek, “But now I do. God, I do. It’s so obvious and I’ve been missing it all this time. I’m in love with you, Santana.”

Her lips press against mine and this time, unlike before, I don’t let the moment pass me by. I’m kissing her back with such desperation, as if I’m trying to pour everything I have into this one kiss so she can truly understand what she means to me. This one kiss matters more than anything ever has to me before. It strikes me that the agonising truth is that this is likely to be one of the only kisses we ever share.

As we begin to pull apart she brushes her lips to mine one last time before whispering, so closely I can feel her breath on my cheek, “I love you too.”

We hold each other for a while, locked together, until I feel her tear land in the crook of my neck. It’s then that I pull back slightly, warranting a puzzled look from her.

Those walls are gone and I can’t help but think that she looks so helpless, so defeated, and the games haven’t even begun. It’s as though she’s given up before she’s even stepped foot in the arena. I know the chances are slim that she’ll return, and I know that right now my own mind is full of pessimism, but I can’t have her thinking that way. Hopelessness could kill her.

“San, please listen to me,” I plead, “You can’t go into this thinking you’re not coming back.”

She shakes her head, “We both know that’s the truth though.”

“Stop,” I say, much more calmly than I feel, “You have to try.”

“There are careers that have trained for years for this. People who can hunt, use weapons, can fight… I don’t have any of that.” She throws her arms in the air, frustration building.

I step forwards, closing the gap between us, “You have strengths too. You’re fast and you know how to navigate. You’re strong and agile, Santana, don’t underestimate that.  And what about the times you went hunting with Katniss and Gale? I know you don’t always go with them but you’ve been often enough to pick up some skills. All I’m saying is please don’t give up now, San. Not before it’s even begun.”

As I put my hand on her waist, she doesn’t try to move away. Her breathing is sharp and jagged and I can tell panic is overcoming her. I think desperately of how to help, and then it hits me. My mind is transported back to our place, “San… Listen to me. Imagine we’re back there, at the lake, our lake, just me and you. We’re sat on that rock. The wind is rustling through the trees and the moonlight is reflecting from the water and it’s so silent, so peaceful. Imagine it for me, the smell, everything about it.”

I feel her inhale deeply, closing her eyes, and I pray to God that this works.

“Okay and you kick off your shoes and dip your feet in the water. It’s cold at first but I put my arm around you while you shiver. The water laps around your feet and you look down and you can see it rippling around your skin, making patterns all around you; each ripple meeting the next until they travel further out into the water and fade away.” I’ve seen her do this countless times since that fateful day 4 years ago, the day when her brother died. It’s something she does when everything’s too much, when she needs to escape, and I hope now that her memory of it can be strong enough to help. It’s the only idea I have and perhaps the only thing I can give her to take with her to the arena: a safe place. Even if it is only in her mind.

She wiggles her toes against the carpet, and I know that she’s trying to replicate the way her toes dig into the soft silt at the bottom of the lake. I hear her take a deep breath again and as she does she nods slowly, “Thank you.” As she pauses she steadies her breathing, opening her eyes, “I promise I’ll try, Quinn. But while I’m gone will you look out for my family? Please? They won’t know what to do and they need to keep it together for my brothers. They’re just kids.”

“Of course, you know I will. I’ll do anything I can to help them.”

Her voice breaks as she says, so quietly it almost disappears unheard into the air, “How can I kill another person?”

I don’t even know what to say in return. The Santana I know can be fierce, can be harsh, can be brutal, she always has been that way, more so when we were younger, but it’s almost always for a reason, and most of the time to protect the ones she loves. Her tongue can be vicious, her words cutting like knives. But none of that means she can be a killer.

But in order to survive, that’s what she’ll have to become.

I answer her honestly, because I don’t know what else I can do, “I don’t know.”

Neither of us have the chance to say anything more because suddenly the sound of footsteps fills both our ears.

Someone is coming down the corridor, and I can only assume it’s to tell us our time is up.

She shakes her head, tears falling once more, as she pulls herself into me. Our foreheads press together and we both stand there for a second, complete silence surrounding us. I attempt to drink in everything I can about her before it’s too late even though I know that’s an impossible task.

I place my hand under her chin, lifting her head until her eyes connect with mine, her brown eyes so full of fear. “I believe in you. Remember that.”

Our lips whisper countless _‘I love you’s’_ between each kiss, every word and action we share so rushed, all part of our desperate race against time.

The footsteps stop outside the door and I know that in a second the handle will turn and I’ll be forced back outside and away from her. But before that can happen I pull her towards me, holding her tighter than I’ve ever held anything before.

But it doesn’t matter how tightly I hold on. I still have to let her go, and let my heart go.

So I do, all the while clinging to the desperate hope that she will come back to me.

After all, sometimes hope is all you can have.

She _will_ come back to me.

She has to.


	4. Part IV- Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had quite a few requests for an epilogue so I had a good think about how exactly I wanted to do that and well... here it is. I hope you like it. Consider it a belated Valentine's day present from me to you.
> 
> Thanks to Kris and Beth for letting me talk about my ideas. I couldn't have done it without you.

It’s been 5 months and things still feel so strange, so different. I guess that’s to be expected. After all, you can’t just lose someone you care so deeply about and then return to normal. That kind of thing only happens in stories. The main character seems to forget so easily, seems to be able to move on in a heartbeat, seems to be happy in an instant. But that’s not reality.

Because in reality that’s all just a lie.

I’ve often wondered if it would ever be possible to manufacture happiness. Pop it in a pill and sell it to the most vulnerable of us all. Although here, in District 12, I have no doubt that almost everyone would need a dose.

The atmosphere here changed the instant that it happened. I can remember it so clearly now. The day we realised we’d lost her.

You’d have thought that the moment she stepped off the train as victor of the 73rd Hunger Games would have been the happiest day of my life, and hers too, but I’ve come to learn that there are no winners in these games. There can’t ever be.

I can still remember it all so clearly, no matter how much time has passed.

The roaring filled the air as she stepped forward, guided carefully by Haymitch who was clutching her arm and whispering something into her ear. I guess that should have been the first clue.

I saw the panic filling her eyes, like a deer trapped in the headlights but completely unable to escape. It was as though she didn’t know where to look because her eyes kept flitting from person to person without focusing properly on any of it at all. It was quite clear that the whole thing was completely overwhelming her. Then she began to breathe heavily, shaking her head and looking at the floor. All I wanted to do was go to her but I knew I couldn’t.

Effie was stood at the front by the microphone, waiting for Santana to give her speech, but the moment never came. Before any of us could understand what was happening, Haymitch was abruptly pushed to the side and she was gone, sprinting away from the square and to the East.

Everyone around me looked confused, still trying to understand what was happening and where our victor had gone. But I had seen the clues before them. The shaking hands, the terror in her eyes… Something was seriously wrong. I pushed my way through them, catching Santana’s mom’s eye as I left. Words passed silently between us.

I ran. Adrenaline pumped through me as I sprinted down and through the maze of houses. Frantically searching, I tore through the streets. I knew where she was heading. There was only one location to the East that could be of any interest to her at all: the old mine entrance.

It’s still a mess there, a constant reminder of the explosion 5 years ago that killed so many. The explosion that took Mark away from her, from them all. He was just a kid, barely 10. He shouldn’t have even been there. 

Sure enough, as I turned the corner, I saw her, kneeling on the dusty ground, now adorned with small drops due to the tears streaming steadily down her face.

“Santana?” The word left my mouth as nothing more than a faint whisper, a ghost hanging between us. So many times her name had left my lips, yet never like that.

She said nothing. Not with her voice, not with her eyes and not with her body. Her gaze remained focused on the floor yet I could see, despite her tears, the vacant expression on her face.

Tears were still falling, but she wasn’t even there. Not really. I wondered what she was thinking and where she had gone. Back into some distant memory perhaps? Back into the arena?

I walked forward, not entirely sure of what I was even going to do. Crouching on the floor beside her, I gently reached forward to place a hand on her shoulder. Suddenly, she recoiled before my skin even reached hers. Fear flashed through her eyes. She stood up straight and backed away from me as though I was her tormentor and being near me caused her nothing but pain.

She looked at me, turned and ran.

Torn, I followed her but stayed far enough behind that she wasn’t aware. It was clear that she just wanted me gone. However, I just wanted to make sure she was safe. I saw her enter her house and I stayed there until Haymitch arrived only minutes later.

It was only a few weeks after that when they took her away once more, to show her off like a prize to the other districts.

I still have no idea how they got her through that process. All those heavily manufactured speeches seemed so robotic in her voice, usually so warm and full of hidden intricacies that I have come to realise I’ve fallen in love with over the years. Watching her each day only made it all hurt even more.

Then she came back, and the reality of the situation hit me.

She may have returned home but she’s never been further away. Even when she was God knows how many miles away in that arena of torture, I never felt so far away from her as I do now.

All I want is to be able to help her but how can I?

How can you help someone who’s been through what she has? I can never fully understand it, and I wouldn’t insult her by trying. The things she’s been through are things that no human should ever have to endure, and really it’s no wonder it’s left her this way.

I’ve tried to be there, we all have, but the truth is it just doesn’t matter what we say or do because she’s not here with us. Not really. The games may have spared her life and she may be here physically, but her mind isn’t, a result of the sick nature of the Capitol.

All we can do is hope that one day she’ll be ready to talk. Maybe that day will never come but I know for a fact that none of us will give up on her.

I have to stop myself from getting angry because it doesn’t do any good. For the first month after the tour I let it consume me, burning fiercely inside until all I could think about was how to make them pay. But I had to stop because I’ll never be any use to her like that. Besides, it won’t change a thing and it certainly won’t bring her back to me.

I walk the familiar path to her house, just as I have every day for the past 5 months. Her mom is sat on the porch and smiles sadly as I approach. This has become part of our lives post-games, just another routine to add to the list.

“How is she today?” I ask, just like I have every day before now.

“The same.” Her mom looks back, almost as though she’s checking nobody can hear. When she’s satisfied she looks back at me, whispering, “Last night’s nightmare was the worst she’s had this week.”

“Mark?”

She nods in response, and I settle myself down on the hard wood by her feet. Just like every other time, she offers me a chair, and just like every other time, I refuse it. I guess it’s stupid but I’d rather sit like this, as I did that night after our kiss by the lake. I know I can’t go back in time, but it’s become so difficult to remember how things used to be, that I’d rather help remind myself in whatever way I can. 

It seems like every day is the same. Every day she has been tormented, even in her sleep, by the game makers. The worst thing is that her brother, the very person she admired the most, is now part of her nightmares.

The mutt they created, the mutt that had his voice, his eyes, his smile, has damaged her beyond repair. I don’t just mean the scars that its wretched claws left on her body. No, its damage was far worse than physical. But I guess after being forced to listen to it for hours on end, sounding just like him, your mind is bound to alter.

I still remember the moment when it happened, when I saw it on the screen.

She’d been there for at least 2 days, trapped up a tree, helplessly looking down at it while it circled. Suddenly, it disappeared. No more echoes of his voice, no more footsteps patrolling around her. There was only her and one other tribute left, a career from District 2. Her exhaustion was so obvious. She’d been up in that tree for far too long with barely any food or water.

 

Things were gearing up for the final battle and we all knew it. It was only a matter of time before the game makers forced the two tributes to come together.

Cautiously, after several hours of silence, she crept down, hoping the mutt was gone. Yet as she arrived on the leaf-covered floor, it pounced out at her, pinning her to the ground in one swift movement. As it landed on top of her it stopped moving, and there was a moment of silence as the two creatures, Santana and it, just stared at each other. She reached out to touch it, to touch the creature that looked so much like Mark, and for a split second it seemed like maybe everything was going to be okay.

But it wasn’t.

It lashed out, growling and snarling at her, swiping with its vicious claws and teeth. It landed a few blows before she managed to struggle out from underneath it, grab the nearest weapon and plunge it deep into its heart.

We all thought the game makers would hurry things along after that, bring things to a close, but they didn’t. They let her sit there, holding its blood-stained dead body while she wept, whispering his name into the night.

Now her whispers have turned into screams instead.

I can only imagine what her mind is doing to her, what memories it is replaying and altering inside her head.

She won’t talk about it. She doesn’t really talk about anything. But I’m here. I’m always here, in case she needs to. In case she needs me.

I sit there for the best part of the day, and don’t even see her. She stays inside, and I’ve learnt by now to not force my presence on her. Some days she’ll sit near us, never too close, and just be there, staring into the distance or writing something in the black notebook she’s taken to carrying around, but some days she doesn’t. Some days she can’t.

I come back after the sun has set, and as I turn the corner by her house I see her closing the front door and leaving. She looks up at me as I arrive and continues walking. For a moment, I think she’s just going to carry on going, she normally does, but this time she stops, looks back and nods slightly.  I take it as a sign that I can come along. This has only happened a handful of times, and when it does we don’t really talk much but that’s okay. I cling to the hope that me just being there is somewhat helpful for her.

We walk together through the darkness. I’m standing to her side, careful not to be too close. I’m more than aware of the distance she’s taken to creating between herself and others and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.

She dips under the fence, just like we have for years, and begins the journey up the hill. I already know exactly where we are going.

The lake.  
Our lake.

I wonder if she still thinks of it that way. I don’t know how much of her mind is still able to think about life before the games.

“I’m going to swim,” she states as we arrive by the shore, glancing at me briefly as she does.

I don’t know if she wants me to follow her so I don’t. I just sit on the rock, letting the cool water splash against my bare feet, as I watch her.

The relationship, friendship, whatever you want to call it, that we share has changed indescribably since the moment Effie picked her name out of that stupid, glass bowl. Yet, one thing hasn’t changed at all. These moments by the lake, when it’s just me and her, are the best moments of my life.

They may be few and far between, and we may not talk the way we used to, but they are still the most precious thing I have. She is still the most precious thing I have.

So I just watch her.

Thoughts flit through my mind and I find myself, not for the first time, admiring not just her beauty but her bravery. This is a girl that has been through hell, a type of hell nobody can ever really understand, yet she’s still here. She may be different, perhaps broken as some people have said, but she’s here and I’m so proud of her for that. I wish I could tell her so but I’m never sure how much I can say.

As she swims towards the shore and comes out of the water, even in the dim light, I can see those lines that are now a permanent fixture adorning the flesh across her stomach. Scars from him… From it.

Silently, she hops up onto the rock and sits beside me, her toes wriggling into the silt beneath our feet. She stares at the ripples for a while, then looks up and into the distance.

Suddenly, after several minutes, the silence that hangs all around us is broken.

“Sometimes I don’t know what’s real anymore.” Her voice is quiet and is almost carried completely away by the breeze.

“This is real,” I say, “Right now.”

“I mean him,” she looks down at the water again as she responds. Her voice sounds so lost and I can feel my heart physically aching inside my chest at her words, “It’s all so mixed up in my head.”

This is the most she’s said about Mark since she came home. I’m not sure what to do because what on Earth could I possibly say to make it any better? But I try regardless.

“That wasn’t him, that thing inside the arena,” I say, watching her carefully, “Mark was nothing like that creature.”

For the first time since she got out of the water, she looks up at me, her eyes so full of confusion. She pauses, the words struggling to escape her mouth, but eventually they do, “It’s all twisted up. Him and it.”

She stops speaking yet I can sense there’s something more she wants to say. I don’t respond, instead giving her as much time as she needs to say whatever it is that has been twisting up her mind. Instead, I just nod slightly.

We sit quietly for a moment before she continues, “At night, he’s always there, in my head.” She looks back out across the water, her gaze fixed on the moon hanging low in the sky. She swallows before finishing her sentence, “It’ll be me and him, playing together or doing one of our stupid plays for mom and dad, and the memory will seem so perfect. Then he changes into…”

She can’t finish her sentence, her voice breaking as tears begin to build in her eyes.

“There’s blood everywhere. He’s dead. They’re all dead. I see them, Quinn. All those people, those kids, that I killed… And Mark.”

“San, you didn’t kill Mark,” I can’t help but let tears fall from my own eyes as I speak. She’s been through so much and I don’t know what I can do to make that better. It can’t be erased, or turned into something happy. “That thing wasn’t him. That was a cruel trick the game makers played on you, to get into your head. You didn’t kill him.”

“I held it, him, whatever it was. I held him in my arms…” she can barely speak now, her voice thick with tears, “Quinn, his eyes…”

I want to hold her but I resist the urge. I wonder if this is why physical contact causes her so much pain, because it, the mutt, was the last thing she held. I don’t want to freak her out so I stay where I am, hoping my words are enough comfort although I doubt they possibly can be. “I know, San. But it wasn’t him.”

“I held him and he died and I did that to him,” her voice is getting louder and I can feel the anger that she’s got inside, anger that’s all directed at herself.

“You did what you had to. It was going to kill you.”

She shakes her head, “Maybe that would have been better. At least then I wouldn’t be like this.”

“Don’t,” I say abruptly. Her head turns back towards me and our eyes connect once more. I don’t know if anything I’m saying is right, or if it’s too much but I suddenly feel like she has to know what I’ve been thinking all this time. That anger shouldn’t be directed at her because she doesn’t deserve it. She’s amazing, and I know that me being in love with her isn’t the cause of this thought. It’s just the truth. “San, I’m so proud of you. Do you know that?”

She looks away and I hope to God that I’m not pushing things too far. But when she doesn’t say anything I decide I may as well continue.

“You’re incredible. You’ve been through something I can never understand, something nobody can ever understand, and you’re still here. They tormented you, tortured you, threw you into those games and you came out alive and you’re here. And every day you carry on being here. You’re the bravest person I will ever know and none of this is your fault. It’s theirs. You have to understand that.”

Suddenly, she leans her head against my shoulder, curling her legs up onto the rock and clutching them to her chest. I tilt my head down so that it lightly touches the top of hers.

 “I just want it all to go away. Make it go away,” she pleads, whispering through the tears that are now streaming down her face.

Her plea reverberates through my body, painfully cutting at me because the reality is that I can’t make it go away no matter how desperately I wish that I could. I’m aware that my own tears are rolling down my cheeks and into her hair but she doesn’t move away.

My voice feels trapped, my throat constricting around my words, as I whisper, “I don’t know how. I wish I did.”

I hate that I have no answer because right now she needs me. Why can’t I have the magic words that make it all better? Like when you were a kid and your mom knew just what to say to make it stop hurting, at least for a little while. I want to make it stop hurting for her, if only for a second.

The sad fact is that this isn’t going to end. There have been 72 other victors before her. 72 other people who have had to murder in order to survive, have had to jump through the Capitol’s hoops, and it shows no sign of ever ending. How many more people will these games destroy?

“Just be here. Please?” Her voice is so fragile and I wonder if she actually doubts that I’d be here for her. I don’t think I’d know how not to be. She’s everything to me.

I wish I could do more than just be here. I wish I could change this world, to make it right again, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe one day somebody will know, and maybe they’ll be able to stand up and fight against it, against the Capitol, but for now maybe the best I can do is precisely this. To be here. To be here for her.

No matter how long it takes, I know that that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll be here.

So as she leans against me, the moonlight shimmering against her wet hair, I whisper one word into the night, and I’m positive I’ve never meant anything more, “Always.”


End file.
